Work Text:
᥀ ⠀. ⠀𖠰 ⠀⠀
When Owen dreams, sometimes he dreams of the past. He dreams—remembers—of the singular terror that pervades deep inside the marrow of a young boy. The ear splitting ring of gunfire, death rattle and bloodied bodies collapsed upon asphalt. When the days are downcast and grey, when he’s alone and the role of optimist has no need to be fulfilled, he’ll sit downbeat and dwell upon it. He is seldom alone these days.
He dreams of what could’ve been, too. All these “what ifs?” that play on his mind. What if the outbreak had been contained? What if he was born into a functioning society? And other questions; What was it like to be a normal kid, to not feel relief at the end of one day and anxiety about the next? He dreams of high school, of movie theatres and streets bustling with living people, laughing and smiling without care or worry.
His favourite dreams, however, are about Abby. Even thinking about her is enough to conjure the smell of pine and old books in the air. When he dreams of her steely-blue, solemn eyes, the intricate way she braids of her hair, the bump on her nose and the natural pout of her lips, he wakes to a sweet ache in his ribcage, curling through his body like a thick smoke. He dreams of a future with Abby, too, of a superficial existence where everything is perfect and nothing nor no one could ever hurt them.
He’s not dreaming now, just hovering in a liminal space of nothingness. He hasn’t been asleep long. He stole away to his room after his patrol that afternoon to evade any tasks being sent his way and sleep seized him quickly. Whether it’s due to exhaustion or boredom he isn’t sure, maybe it’s a combination of the two.
Disappointment had been gnawing at him since he saw Abby wouldn’t be on his patrol that morning, more so because Manny’s name occupied the dotted line beside hers. Jealousy had taken a couple more bites out of him than he’d care to admit, too.
Patrols with Abby were always fun, even when they just sat together in companionable silence and watched the city’s dilapidated skyline together. But today he had been subjected to the dull ramblings of a much older soldier; greying and wrinkled and seemed about forty years his senior.
He found stories of the old world intriguing at the best of times, but jeez, this guy talked and talked and talked and all Owen wanted was for Abby to tell him about the new book she had been reading. And the thought of Manny only added extra weight to his annoyance.
Not that he regards Manny in a negative light, no. Manny’s his best friend and roommate. But the idea of Manny and Abby on patrol together at this moment is enough to make his stomach fold in on itself; smiling, laughing and alone.. augh.
There’s a trickle of cold down his cheek that makes him stir, eliciting a displeased groan from him where words won’t come out. His nose crinkles. Another rivulet of cold, and another. It drips down his jaw into his neck, a shiver down his spine and he stirs again.
A groan and a faint “What?” passes by his lips before finally cracking his eyes open, and is met with two blue eyes staring back at him, nose to nose. Abby. It sends his heart into his mouth.
“Abs, wha--?” Is all he manages before Abby’s face pulls away from him, sitting back on her heels and screwing the metal cap back onto the flask in her hand. The room is darker than he had expected, fingers of moonlight illuminate the cheeky smile playing on her lips, choking back laughter.
“Happy birthday, goober.”
Owen isn’t cognisant enough to quite appreciate the magnitude of Abby’s words yet, still floating whenever his mind had been taking him. Wriggling his hands free from underneath the covers and wiping the sleep from his eyes, the world begins to unblur. He half expects to open his eyes to nothing but phantom weight beside him, to Abby’s presence being nothing but an agonisingly realistic—desperate—dream.
A knee nudges him. “Didn’t you hear me?”
No, that’s definitely a voice. Her voice. He’d recognise that warm cadence anywhere. He opens his eyes, and there she is. The moonlight makes her look angelic.
“I heard you,” Owen’s voice is hoarse from sleep, throat uncomfortably tacky, but her presence earns a small smile. When doesn’t it? “I just don’t appreciate being woken up at—“
At—? That’s the question. It had only just passed three o’clock when he returned to the hospital. Owen turns his head to the other side towards the clock on the bedside table. Surely he hasn’t been asleep that long, right?
But he has, more or less. He looks at the alarm clock, its glass cracked in the corner from where it had been previously dropped. His eyes adjust to the darkness and it reads eleven fifty-two.
You slept for almost nine hours? Idiot.
Despite himself, his smile spreads into a full grin.
“It’s not midnight yet,” he says amused.
“Yeah, but--”
“Then it’s not my birthday yet, Abigail.”
Abby rolls her eyes playfully at that, earning an slipping the backpack from her shoulder onto the bed and twisting her body to lay down beside him.
Owen cocks a brow at this, but shimmies to the side a little anyway to create more space for her. The bed is way too small to accommodate two. “What are you doing?”
“Uh, waiting for your birthday?” Abby responds as if it’s obvious, which admittedly it is. She’s never been this close to him before. A warm flush overtakes him.
Words fail him, jumbled and fumbling on his tongue where he isn’t sure what to say. But Abby doesn’t seem to mind. They lay in companionable silence as they tend to do, staring up at the tiles on the ceiling. Abby had sat her pack down on his foot and he couldn’t feel much of his toes anymore, he wiggles them and the weight of her bag squashes them. He only manages to pull his foot from underneath with a strong tug, followed by the telltale jingling of coins clattering at the bottom of her bag. Jeez, her bag is heavier than usual. His interest is piqued.
“What the hell is in your pack? A brick?”
Owen turns his head to look at her and she at him, nose to nose again. There’s the same cheeky smile playing on her lips.
“It’s a surprise,” her voice is hushed, like she’s hiding a deep dark conspiracy.
“Can I see?” His foot taps the bag again with a degree of force to make it jingle again, and there’s a hint of paper rusting too, he thinks. Abby nudges his leg to get him to stop.
“It’s not your birthday yet, remember?” She parrots, “You’ll have to wait.”
“Mean.”
“You started it.”
They seem to swim in each other’s irises for a moment—just a moment—before Abby turns her head back to look at the ceiling, and Owen turns to look at the clock again. Eleven fifty-six, four more minutes.
His mind scrambles. She has a surprise for him? He can’t recall the last time he had been given a gift on his birthday, not since his family was killed. Ever since his birthday has meant nothing but a necessary detail on a dotted line.
He turns to look at her again, admiring her profile. The delicate curve of her jaw. Her freckles. Her slender, aquiline nose— the remarkable bump upon its bridge. Her pouty bottom lip. She’s so beautiful. It makes him feel a little giddy inside.
Abby turns to him again, this time lifting her head to look behind him. She smiles.
“Happy birthday goober, again.”
For assurance Owen twists a moment to glance at the clock too, finding midnight displayed on its face.
He faces her again, returns the smile and half a laugh spills from his lips. “Thank you, Abigail.”
Just as he lays back down beside her again, Abby sits up, reaching for her backpack and pulling it into her lap. He can’t help but feel slightly disappointed.
“So-- you might want to turn the lamp on--” Her fingers fumble for the opening, so Owen swiftly obliges and sits up to reach for the switch. He almost regrets not changing before going to sleep, his belt cuts uncomfortably into his stomach.
When he switches the light on, the room is awash in a warm yellow hue. He blinks several times to adjust to the light, turning to Abby and his heart skips a beat at the sight her. “I have some gifts for you.”
Abby removes said gifts from her bag, hiding the pile behind it. A betraying pink flush spreads across Owen’s face that he doesn’t acknowledge until Abby flicks her eyes up to him again. She probably notices.
“You gave me those books for mine so I thought it’s only fair if I get you something too, y’know.”
It’s true. Abby’s birthday fell just a month prior and Owen gave her a selection of books he found at the library, some titles he recalled her mentioning to him before she wanted to read. He had to admit he felt incredibly proud of himself when he gave them to her, watching her eyes gleam. It gave his heart a warm twist, and the feeling is ever present now whenever he sees her reading them.
“Here--” Her words temporarily stall when she picks up the pile of items hidden behind her pack, balanced precariously on top of one another, and places them in his lap with a smile, “--you go.”
Owen takes a few moments to analyse the pile in his lap, reaching to flip through each item. His mouth feels a little dry, his heart beats at the speed of a galloping horse.
The item at the top is a box saying graphite pencils, the cardboard is a little beaten up—from dampness and being packed into Abby’s bag—but he’s able to make out the word ‘professional’ on the box, too. Woah. Carefully placing the pencils to one side, his eyes flick up to Abby quickly. She can see the puzzle in his eyes as he reaches for the next item: A box of pens.
“You always complain you have to steal stuff and I thought you’d like your own,” He espies her finger pointing at the box, ghosting her finger along the calligraphy. Professional fineliners. Again, professional. “And these are like, real art supplies and not regular stationery.”
He can tell. He hasn’t seen anything like this before.
Owen isn’t too sure how to feel, but the bottom line is he feels spoiled. The blush on his cheeks feels embarrassingly warm, hands shaking a little as he opens the box and takes one of the pens from inside. They’re not the usual ballpoint pens he finds around the hospital, the barrel is slick and completely black, save for some numbering, and the nib is longer and thinner.
He’s lost for words, and Abby seems content in watching for the moment.
Only a few items remain in his lap, they’re not as obscured now and Owen can decipher them quite easily. Resting on his lap are two sketchbooks, and on top is another beaten box that reads ‘charcoal pastels.’ He places the charcoals to one side a moment to check out the sketchbooks, he picks up one and flicks through it. Its pages are thicker compared to the usual paper he draws on, less flimsy and likely to rip. It’s no surprise the pages are a little discoloured, but otherwise the quality seems high.
He feels Abby repositioning herself when he places the sketchbook back on top of the other in his lap, now reaching for the box of charcoals again. It’s no surprise a couple of the pastels are broken inside the box when he opens it, others crumbled at the edges. They range from black to white and half a dozen different greys in between.
His brain struggles to process the potential Abby has handed to him, mind flittering. Thoughts only interrupted by Abby’s voice.
“Do you like them?” There’s a hint of concern in her question that makes Owen immediately raise his head to look up at her. Suddenly, his heart swells. Even he can admit he’s been uncharacteristically quiet.
“Abby, this is fucking awesome, yes” His face splits into an uncontrollable smile. “Thank you.”
Relief passes over her like a cool wave, smiling again. “You’re welcome, I knew you would.”
Carefully, he collects his new supplies into a pile and swings his legs out from the warmth beneath the covers, the tiles are cold when his feet touch the ground. He kneels down to place them underneath his bed, and feels something thump on the ground beside him.
It’s Abby’s bag, next to the muddy boots she thoughtfully took off before climbing onto his bed. She’s showing no signs of leaving anytime soon, and he’s not one to complain about that. He loves her company.
When he gets up, she’s still sitting on his bed.
“Can I turn the lamp off now? It’s hurting my eyes.”
“Sure.”
Sitting down on the bed, he reaches for the switch and soon the room is illuminated only by the moon again. When he twists to lay down again, Abby follows suit and squeezes up next to him. She smells delightfully of pine and rainfall.
“So, is this a sleepover?”
“If you’d like it to be,” Abby’s voice is small, facing him nose to nose. “Besides I don’t think I’d survive out there now, I’m bound to get caught on my way back.”
It’s a surprise to him that Abby would consider sneaking around the hospital so late, especially when the hardass soldiers stalk the halls and wouldn’t think twice about giving her up to her dad. He can’t imagine her punishment would be severe, though.
“I like this new colour on you, Abigail,” he chuckles. “Maybe next time I can tempt you into sneaking out with me when I go graffiting.”
She snorts and it’s adorable. “I’ll think about it.”
After a couple seconds the laughter passes and a beat of silence follows. In an effort to keep their conversation going, he speaks without much thought in it.
“How was your patrol with Manny today?”
Of course, Owen. You bring up Manny.
Abby doesn’t seem overly concerned by his questions. “It was okay, we only ran into a few infected,” she responds simply, “we mostly just played cards.”
Looking up at the ceiling, Owen tsks without thinking.
Quirking a brow, Abby props her head into her arm to look down at him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
His plain response obtains a smirk, “Jealous much?”
Yes.
“No,” He shouldn’t sound so defensive about the accusation, albeit it’s difficult when it’s the truth. His tongue fumbles. “I just wish we had patrol together today.”
“So you are jealous?” she pushed.
“Maybe,” Owen attempts to play along with the banter, despite the wringing feeling inside his chest. “I feel like I’m being dethroned as your best friend.”
“Manny is my best friend.”
“And I’m not?”
“Manny’s my friend and you’re--” There, the room falls silent. Abby’s mirth seems to falter into something more reflective—hesitant. The words evaporate on her lips, catching them between her teeth as she’s wont to do. She looks away, rapt in thought.
“I’m..?” Owen urges, letting the question linger open-ended. His eyebrows furrow, carefully analysing Abby’s mien illuminated by the moonlight. For once, she was unreadable. “What?”
A beat or two of silence passes between them before she responds.
“You’re Owen.”
There’s something wary in it, something cautious. As if she’s afraid she’s said too much.
Another beat of silence passes.
In the moment, Owen stifles a laugh, albeit poorly. It’s instinctive, occupying the empty space in his mouth where his mind racing to piece together this puzzle laid before him. You’re Owen, his mind parrots, over and over. He isn’t sure if he quite understands what she means by it. Abby’s gaze has yet to meet him again, although her eyes seem to flicker to him every couple seconds, waiting for a response to break the tension.
“I’m Owen?” is all his voice can muster in response, hoping for an explanation. Abby looks troubled, he can see it written on her features. It’s palpable.
Her mouth opens, still searching for the words and failing, until turning back to face him with a pout. “…I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend like you before.”
Owen feels almost breathless, a little perplexed still. It’s only when Abby begins to slowly lean in that he begins to understand. Or so he hopes. Owen lifts his head from the pillow to meet her halfway.
The touch of their lips is barely that at all, more like breathing each other in. The anxiety is tangible between them, daring the other to lean in just that little bit more. Owen takes the chance, gently pressing lips upon hers and it’s as if she pulls him into an embrace.
“Abby..” he whispers her name against her lips, if only just to hear her name. Abby, Abby, Abby. It’s heady on his tongue. They pepper kisses upon each other’s lips, to find a rhythm to sustain them for however long— he hopes forever.
Abby nuzzles her nose against his, her free hand ghosts over his chest and finds a perch upon his sternum, resting above his heart. “Owen.”
Owen takes the opportunity to raise his hand to cup the back of her neck, stabilising her. They seize each other once again.
Their kiss is soft and languid now, and the air of mutual inexperience is palpable. Owen has kissed girls before, but never has he done so with so much want. He’s unsure if she has kissed anyone at all, but Abby is good at everything. In the milliseconds between their lips touching he can feel Abby shift closer, slipping down the bed until she’s laying beside him. Her leg tangles with his through the bedsheets, as if anchoring herself to him. His heart feels like bursting out of his ribcage. They kiss and kiss and kiss, stealing the breath from each other’s lungs and time is rendered obsolete. They’re dizzy and the world seems perfect.
Owen’s fingers smooth over the back of her neck once more before he brings it to her cheek, feeling the heat radiating from beneath freckled skin. The act of pulling away from their kiss feels almost inhumane, and Abby makes a small whining sound in response telling him she agrees. But he misses her face.
She attempts to lean forward again, but his hand cradling her cheek catches her before she does. There’s an imperceptible, nigh intoxicating brush of their lips and Owen almost gives into it. It feels like self-betrayal not to.
The rough pad of his thumb caresses the red apple of her cheek, retaining the kind of plump innocence found so very rarely in this little life of theirs. She isn’t smiling, but she isn’t frowning either. Her lips pout, parted expectantly for another kiss, and the great ocean of her eyes share a similar gleam of want—desperation. A maelstrom dragging him under.
She has eyes he could drown in.
Owen leans in to steal another kiss, thinking it would be the most pleasant way to die.
᥀ ⠀. ⠀𖠰 ⠀⠀